


new miracles

by gealbhan



Series: joy surrounds, comfort abounds [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Carnivorous Plants, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Gift Giving, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Polyamorous Black Eagles, Polyamory, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: Bernadetta fills a greenhouse.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra, Caspar von Bergliez/Bernadetta von Varley, Dorothea Arnault/Bernadetta von Varley, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Bernadetta von Varley, Ferdinand von Aegir/Bernadetta von Varley, Linhardt von Hevring/Bernadetta von Varley, Petra Macneary/Bernadetta von Varley
Series: joy surrounds, comfort abounds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583263
Comments: 6
Kudos: 102





	new miracles

**Author's Note:**

> we are back!!! this time with bernie!!! because she deserves nice things and 7(+? who can say, i'm deliberately keeping non-bleagles fates/relationships ambiguous) loving partners. the child abuse tag refers only to vague references to bernadetta's backstory/home life -- nothing super concrete, and definitely nothing stronger than canon, but just keeping things on the safe side.
> 
> also, apologies in advance for any inaccuracies wrt the cultivation/appearance/etc of the plants described here -- i am certifiably Not a botanist! and playing by the game's rules of "anything can grow in this small greenhouse." My City Now.
> 
> title is from _the secret garden_ : "And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles." enjoy!

**i.**

Once, after the war ended, Edelgard had taken Bernadetta’s hands in hers and told her she would give Bernadetta anything she wished. Out of affection and care as well as reciprocation of Bernadetta’s loyalty. Bernadetta had laughed it off; being alive, having everyone alive at her side, and never having to face her father again (he’d died under “mysterious circumstances,” it would be said) were already far more than enough.

Edelgard had accepted that with a smile, but she’d still insisted upon hearing about Bernadetta’s interests and hobbies—even the carnivorous plants so many others thought odd—and plans for the future. That, too, Bernadetta hadn’t thought much of.

She should have known better than to underestimate Edelgard, though, she thinks as Edelgard’s hands lift from her eyes and she stares up at the largest greenhouse she’s ever seen.

For the past several months, she’d been staying in the palace at Enbarr at Edelgard’s behest. The heavy-handed implication was that it was to refresh and spend some time away from the Varley estate, Bernadetta had thought—while she’s sure that was still part of it, now she knows that it hadn’t been the only reason. She can only imagine how long it took to construct such a building. In the past, Varley has only enjoyed some foliage in the form of the lush gardens tended to by the hired help and, while she’d still lived here, Bernadetta’s mother. The greenhouse is an altogether new innovation.

When she first sees it, Bernadetta almost wants to cry. By now, she’s used to gifts—one couldn’t study under Professor Byleth without becoming accustomed to their presents—but this is—

“Edelgard,” she says in little more than a shaky whisper, glancing away from the greenhouse as though it’s the sun, ready to blind her, “this is way too much.”

“Nonsense—it’s the least I could do, truly,” says Edelgard, shuffling under Bernadetta’s teary gaze. “You—I know you don’t always think this, Bernadetta, but you deserve the loveliest things possible. And I shall do all that is in my power to ensure you get them.” Bernadetta lowers her warm face, and Edelgard clears her throat. “Besides, if you really feel uncomfortable, you can return the favor by painting a piece of us for the palace.”

“Oh? I—I don’t work with paint a ton, but I guess if it’s for you—” Bernadetta stops to process Edelgard’s words. “Us? You mean, like, the two of us?” She gestures unnecessarily between them.

“And the rest of the former Black Eagles,” adds Edelgard. She takes Bernadetta’s stunned silence the wrong way, lowering her head and saying, “I realize that it’s quite an undertaking, so rest assured, there’s no pressure on you to accept whatsoever. I can seek someone else to commission, or—”

“No, no!” interrupts Bernadetta, waving her hands. “I—I mean, yes! Yeah, I would love to do something like that!” She coughs at her own fervor and links her hands together at her waist. “It might take me a while, but, um, I would definitely do that even if it wasn’t in return for—” she gestures to the greenhouse “—this. I—I feel kinda guilty that it’s all I can really offer, actually.”

Though she’d be remiss to say she wasn’t planning on making it the biggest spectacle possible. Large paintings aren’t her forte, but the composition forms of its own volition in Bernadetta’s mind: Edelgard seated on her throne in the center, an axe (not Aymr, now that Crests and by extension Heroes’ Relics are worth so little) before her, the rest of them swelling out around her, rendered in far brighter colors than the dreary portraits of previous rulers. Hubert and Ferdinand, being her right and left hand, would have to be at her immediate sides, a hand on each of her shoulders. Caspar and Linhardt off to one side, Dorothea singing behind Edelgard, and Petra and Bernadetta to the other side. Ah, but self-portraits are always so difficult. Bernadetta hasn’t drawn herself since she was maybe seven, one of the first times someone set paper and ink before her to occupy herself with—

“Bernadetta?” asks Edelgard, a gentle prod.

“Oh! Sorry, El, were you saying something? Um, I was a little lost in thought.” Bernadetta smiles, sheepish.

“So I gathered.” Despite the cool tone of her voice, Edelgard smiles gently, always a relief to see—not that it doesn’t happen whenever Bernadetta (or anyone) calls her _El_. Pain had lit up in her eyes the very first time, but now only utter joy fills her expression. “I was just saying that any work of yours would be worth more than anything. You needn’t even pay this back—” she nods toward the greenhouse as well “—as it’s a gift.”

“A really generous one, though,” points out Bernadetta. She feels like they’re going in circles, though, so she forces herself to let herself have something for once. “Um. Can I see the inside?”

Edelgard snorts. “Naturally. It _is_ yours,” she teases.

With a little roll of the eyes, Bernadetta takes a deep breath, pushes open the doors, and steps in. Edelgard follows her.

It’s even larger on the inside, Bernadetta realizes as she looks around with wide eyes. The interior is open, with a high ceiling and sprawling amounts of space; despite that, there’s a distinct sense of security within, especially with the warmth from the sun. The walls are sturdy, the doors lock (as Edelgard shows her), the narrow windows let just enough light in, and while there are no plants now, Bernadetta knows she’ll soon change that. She can envision it now: Herself tucked away in a shadowy corner, writing or drawing or admiring her collection of carnivorous plants…

Oh, but it’s probably rude of her to entertain such thoughts when she has company. Bernadetta spins back toward Edelgard, giddiness spilling across her face, and when at last she gathers her voice, it still trembles. “This really is—”

“If you say _too much_ , Bernie—”

“No, no,” says Bernadetta, though that had been her intention. Edelgard’s eyes narrow. “Um, it’s really—uh—wonderful!” improvises Bernadetta, which, to be fair, is also true.

“I’m glad you think so.” Edelgard’s shoulders slacken. She reaches up to brush her fingers across the embroidered flower pinned to her chest. “I hoped you would like it. I did spend, er, quite some time on it—”

“How could I _not_ like it? First of all, the architecture is just incredible,” says Bernadetta, gesturing all around. Edelgard blinks at the passion taking over her words but doesn’t bother to interrupt. “I can really tell how much time you spent on it. Second, it’s perfect for me personally—I mean, a place for me to grow plants? And be alone but still, you know, out? You put so much thought into this, Edelgard, and I—I—”

Her boldness and delight turning to a scowl as she finds herself running out of the proper words, Bernadetta decides to just express her emotions by marching over to Edelgard and taking her sun-warmed face in her hands so she can lean down to kiss her. Edelgard’s mouth parts in surprise. Soon, though, she arches up into Bernadetta, lips curving into a smile against hers. Their embrace is brief yet strong, and when Bernadetta pulls away, she rests her forehead against Edelgard’s.

“Thank you,” says Bernadetta, flushing not from the sudden intimacy but the realization that she hasn’t even said that. What a simple thing, such basic etiquette, and yet—Bernadetta shakes her head. _No time for that, Bernie_. “Thank you so much, El, seriously. I love it so much. Thank you.”

Flustered herself, Edelgard waves her off. “As I said, it’s no problem at all. I’m only glad you like it. Would you like for me to leave you alone now?” she adds, glancing around.

“Actually—” Bashfulness rises up, but Bernadetta swallows down her anxiety. She’d enjoy spending more time with Edelgard, and she’s sure Edelgard would enjoy spending more time with her too, even if it’s only to hear about plants. If she wouldn’t, though, that would also be fine. Her Majesty is a busy woman, and Bernadetta certainly needs no shortage of time to recharge by herself. “Do you want to just… sit with me and hear about some of my plans? For this place, I mean, and, um, maybe the portrait too.”

Bernadetta’s doubt sears away with the caliber of Edelgard’s beam as she settles in beside her. “I would be delighted to.”

**ii.**

As always, the greenhouse at Garreg Mach is tranquil and quiet. The sunset paints everything a calming shade of orange. It’s much smaller than her own greenhouse—still a weird thought to entertain—and holds fewer carnivorous plants, but Bernadetta has always enjoyed spending time here, whether with her fellow Black Eagles or Byleth or only herself. Though the few pitcher plants hold her attention the longest, Bernadetta can’t help but smile as she takes in the life flourishing all around.

“The roses are growing nicely, aren’t they?” comes a droll voice from the entrance.

Bernadetta jumps and looks up to find Linhardt in the doorway. He’s dressed down, his hair in a loose, lazy ponytail tied off with a band featuring an embroidered flower and his crooked glasses seated on his nose, and the amber glow of the sky illuminates him. He leans against the door frame with his arms crossed. It makes him look cool and detached, but Bernadetta knows he’s supporting himself in case he falls asleep.

“They are,” says Bernadetta, eyeing the flowers in question. They’re sprouting up from between a couple of tomato plants—the arrangement of this greenhouse is much more of a haphazard patchwork than in Bernadetta’s, but that’s charming in its own way. Bernadetta taps one of the white roses. “This one is pretty tall.”

“Mmm. They’re the pride and joy of my colleagues. Personally, gardening is far too labor-intensive for me.” Linhardt yawns, stretching his arms out, but his eyes stay open (albeit lidded) behind his glasses. “I _do_ like to sleep in here on occasion, though. It’s a nice napping spot.”

Bernadetta wouldn’t want to sleep here—while separated from most of the rest of the monastery, it’s still too open for her liking. Still, she can see why Linhardt would like it, and she tells him so. “It’s—um, it’s pretty warm in here, but comfortably so,” she says, tapping her chin. “And it’s close to the fishing pond and dining hall, so when you do get up, you can head right over there.”

Linhardt smiles and nods. “I knew you’d understand.” He tips his head in a silent question, and at Bernadetta’s nod, he steps inside. His eyes flicker around—they move so fast that Bernadetta can’t track where he’s looking until his gaze settles back on her. “Which one is your favorite? Of the plants here, anyway.”

“Obviously the pitcher plants,” says Bernadetta with a huff. “They’ve always been my favorite. How is that even a question? How long have you known me?” At Linhardt’s flat expression, she wilts a little, just like the poor malnourished lily in the corner. “Erm, sorry! That was rude, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, that wasn’t a judgmental look. I did assume that would be your answer. Why are they your favorite?”

“Wh—” Scowling now, Bernadetta narrows her eyes. “I’ve definitely told you that, too. Why ask if you already knew, huh?”

Cat-like, Linhardt shrugs. “You’re cute when you talk about things you like.”

Even after all of this time, his blunt honesty takes Bernadetta by surprise, and she has to look away as her face heats up. “Oh,” she says, unable to fight a small smile. “Um, I don’t think I have the energy to actually talk about them right now, but later this week, I can tell you why the pitcher plants growing here are so cool! I-If you would be okay with listening to me ramble on, I mean.” Already, she bites her lip, but she waits for Linhardt to respond before she can get too self-deprecating even in her mind.

“I don’t have much energy to listen right now either.” Linhardt leans against the wall to hold himself up. “But I’ll be happy to do so when you feel up to it.”

Bernadetta’s smile widens. “I’m in fine company, then. And if there’s anything you want to talk about—”

“Well, I have been developing a new kind of fishing float,” says Linhardt, giving Bernadetta pause—she’d assumed he’d want to talk about something Crest-related, but that should be interesting too. “But enough about that. Speaking of carnivorous plants—” he gestures to a plant growing along the opposite wall, a small sundew that Bernadetta can’t believe she hadn’t noticed before “—that’s for you. The next time it produces seeds, you can have some.”

“Um,” says Bernadetta faintly. “Huh?”

“The sundew,” says Linhardt, cocking his head. “ _Drosera capensis_. If you’d like to cultivate some, I can send you the next batch of seeds. If not, though—”

Though she’s more than delighted by the simple offer, Bernadetta blurts out, “I thought you didn’t like gardening.”

“Oh, no, _I_ don’t.” Linhardt scoffs and nudges his hair off his shoulder. “But Byleth drops by every now and then to grow more plants. They’re becoming an urban legend among the faculty here. The mysterious professor who only appears once in a blue moon to water and pick some plants and eat no less than five meals in a row.” He speaks with the usual boredom, but there’s a flicker of joy in his eyes at telling the story.

“Of course they are,” says Bernadetta, shaking her head—she can’t imagine them any other way. “So they grew the sundew for me?”

With another yawn, Linhardt stretches his hands out. “Indeed, though I water it every now and then, and they told me to do with it as I wished. It’s taking over the rest of the wall, so I wish to stop it from spreading any further. And you have a greenhouse dedicated to this sort of thing—” he flicks one hand toward the sundew “—so the natural conclusion would be to give some seeds to you, no?”

“Well—when you put it like that—” Bernadetta rubs her arms, wishing she’d worn shorter sleeves. “I’ll absolutely take those seeds, by the way—I already have a couple of sundews, but I’ve still got plenty of room. Thank you, Lin.”

“Please, I’ve hardly done anything,” says Linhardt, but he sighs under Bernadetta’s accusatory look. “Oh, fine. Your thanks are very much appreciated.” He bows, a mocking imitation of Hubert (which Bernadetta giggles to see), and then glances back to the sundew. With a small smile, he adds, “That would look nice in the corner of your greenhouse.”

He doesn’t have to clarify which one—Bernadetta knows what he means, and her eyes widen. “Ooh, it would! You’ve always had a real eye for composition.” Though this isn’t the usual application of it, given how often he helps her figure out how to bring illustrations together. “Thank you so much.”

Linhardt only hums. “Just an observation. Well, now that I’m done letting you know about that, I happen to be just exhausted. I think I’ll be retiring to my study now.”

“Ah—you won’t even join me for dinner first?” Bernadetta raises a set of doe eyes more befitting of Dorothea or Ferdinand. She won’t be hurt if Linhardt refuses, but she _is_ hungry and here to spend time with him, so she might as well ask.

The pleading look doesn’t really affect him, she knows, as Linhardt can’t be swayed if he doesn’t want to do something, but still, he huffs and straightens. “If you insist. Though I can hardly be blamed for falling asleep in my supper.”

Bernadetta laughs, pleased, and links their arms together. “I’ll hold you up if you do,” she promises, allowing Linhardt to lean on her. Though she’s shorter, she’s developed a significant amount of muscle from years of honing her skills in archery, lance fighting, and horseback riding, while Linhardt’s refusal to pick up any sort of traditional weapon has led to just the opposite. He’s not as physically weak as Hubert, but he is pretty lanky, making it easy for Bernadetta to support his weight.

“Much appreciated,” says Linhardt with a sigh.

Together, they maneuver their way out of the greenhouse, stepping once more into the setting sun.

**iii.**

This time of year, Brigid is warm, a delightful alternative to the chill enveloping Varley territory. Bernadetta doesn’t spend much time here, at least compared to her other partners’ homes across Fódlan—it’s a long boat trip, and though she isn’t afraid of heights, she isn’t fond of them either, ruling out Petra bringing her by wyvern unless in special circumstances. But whenever she is able to visit, she insists on sightseeing.

Today, Petra is showing her around the wetlands not far from the palace. She tells Bernadetta to watch her step so often that after a while Bernadetta just lets Petra guide her along by the hand. It’s not so bad, she decides, following someone else’s lead.

The humidity and bright sunlight are starting to get to her, though. Her boots are also wet from all of the boggy water she’s stepped in by accident. But it’s nice, Bernadetta thinks, to explore like this, even if she doubts she’ll step foot outdoors for at least three days once they return.

Petra stops in front of her, cutting off Bernadetta’s train of thought. Bernadetta stumbles to catch herself in time. Her hand tightens on Petra’s, reflexive, and just as she opens her mouth to ask what’s going on, Petra speaks up.

“Look, Bernie—you should be liking this.” Petra gestures to a cluster of plants floating atop a nearby pond. Small yellow flowers hover from stems on the water’s surface. Underneath the water, Bernadetta can make out sprawling mats of leaves and roots that go on farther than she can see at a quick glance. She looks questioningly to Petra, who brightens. “These are a species of carnivorous plant! I do not know the name that is having science, but they are called—I think this is the term in the language of Fódlan—bladderworts.”

“Bladderworts, huh?” echoes Bernadetta, prodding her memories. “I’ve read about them, I think, but I’ve never seen them in person. What do they eat?”

“Of that, I am unsure,” says Petra. “Perhaps mosquitoes? There are—very many of them being around.” To prove her point, she swats at one buzzing dangerously close to Bernadetta’s arm.

Bernadetta winces—at least neither of them had been bitten yet. She’d gotten used to being preyed upon by whole swarms back at Garreg Mach. “Hmm… I wonder if we’d be able to watch them feed if we waited here.” Then she remembers that some plants can go weeks without eating and balks. “I mean—that would probably be pretty boring, yeah? W-We can move on if you want.”

“I am used to having to wait for long times while I am hunting, so this does not seem too bad to me,” says Petra. “If you would be liking to stay here and observe the bladderworts, then I am happy to as well.”

“You really don’t have to—” But Petra’s face is open and honest, no hint of hesitation no matter how hard Bernadetta looks, so she cuts herself off.

From what Bernadetta has observed so far, there are a lot of pitcher plants around here, as well as some sundews and butterworts, but they’re mostly wild. She’s excited to see something other than those—she doesn’t _dislike_ any type of carnivorous plant, but variety is nice sometimes. And she doesn’t think she’s gotten the chance to see an aquatic species up this close before.

“Can you cultivate these anywhere else?” she wonders, kneeling to better inspect the bladderworts sprawling across the pond. It’s a small enough body of water, but still, they seem to have warded off any other sort of life save for, presumably, their prey.

“I apologize, I am not knowing,” says Petra, crouching next to Bernadetta. “In the past, I have only used wild plants for food and other such uses.”

“Oh, yeah, you can’t eat a lot of these. Well, maybe you can here?” Not that Bernadetta wants to be the one to find that out—she stops her hand in the middle of reaching toward the plant. Best not push her luck. “But, er, probably not. How much else do you know about these?”

“Not much, I am afraid.” Petra adjusts her posture, squatting with her arms resting on her knees. “I have not been having much need for such plants, and I am not often coming upon information regarding them in my other studying. I admire your interest in them, and they have much mystery, but I am more focused on other aspects of nature.”

Bernadetta folds her hands beneath her chin. She would attempt to mimic Petra’s pose, but she doesn’t think she would be able to get out of it. “Yeah, I get that. I don’t think anyone is as interested in this sort of thing as I am,” says Bernadetta with a laugh. “Definitely nobody else thinks they’re, um, cute or anything like that.”

Frowning, Petra tilts her head. “I am sure someone is feeling the same way as you,” she says kindly. “I am not thinking they are… cute, exactly, but I do think these flowers are very pretty. And yellow.” The word is neutral, but the smile returning to Petra’s face implies the remark is more positive than it seems.

“The yellow is nice,” agrees Bernadetta. “They’re a lot brighter than a lot of my plants. It kind of reminds me of sunflowers.”

“I am liking sunflowers greatly! Perhaps these are going to become a favorite of mine as well,” says Petra, tapping her chin. “After all, I am getting to spend time with you while looking at them, so from now on, they will be reminding me of you.”

“Oh!” Bernadetta’s face splits into a grin. “That’s—that’s really sweet of you, Petra. I think they’ll remind me of you too.” Sunflowers certainly have. She’d had no strong feelings toward them before she’d noticed how often they were in Petra’s room, even during the war, and then Bernadetta had noticed herself smiling every time she saw any sunflower.

“I am speaking only the truth,” says Petra, but she twists one of the bracelets on her wrist, an embroidered flower on its back.

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Bernadetta sits there for a few moments longer, eyeing the bladderworts with an edge of desperation, but nothing happens save for the gentle stirring of the water.

“Well, I don’t think we’re going to see this eat anytime soon.” With a sigh, Bernadetta stands and stretches, concerned by the uncomfortable cracking noises her joints make. Petra follows her at a slower pace. “That’s a shame, but I guess I’ll just see if I can read anything about its feeding methods later,” she says, rubbing some of the craning-induced tension out of her neck. “Anyway, do you happen to have anything else to show me?”

Petra’s eyes gleam. “I am glad you asked. Come with me, Bernie!”

“Oh boy,” mutters Bernadetta, but she smiles as she threads her hand back through Petra’s.

**iv.**

Bernadetta wakes to silence and an empty bed. This isn’t surprising nor unfamiliar, and Bernadetta doesn’t think much of it as she dresses and figures out what she’s going to do today. She doesn’t have any important meetings or anything to that effect, so she decides to have a quiet morning in—after breakfast, anyway—and maybe spend the afternoon in her greenhouse. She has some writing to catch up on, both her hobbyist pieces and letters, and it’s not a good day in Varley without some time in the greenhouse.

However, when she steps into the hall, she almost runs into a package sitting right outside the door. _FOR BERNADETTA VON VARLEY’S EYES ONLY_ is written on the side in a fine hand, unsurprisingly familiar, and an envelope sits atop the box.

While unusual, this isn’t a new situation. Bernadetta, after backtracking into her room and then returning once she recovers from the shock, shakes the box. Only some rustling—nothing too heavy and no dubious ticking or anything of the sort. When she presses her face to the box, she can smell the faint scent of coffee.

Well, she supposes there can’t be anything too dangerous inside. She tugs the box into her quarters (she’s at least grateful that it hadn’t been left inside). The door blows shut behind her—making doors open and close whenever she wishes seems to be a talent of hers.

Bernadetta glances either way and checks behind her curtains and all of her furniture. Once she’s ensured that she’s alone, she kneels to examine the letter. She breaks the meticulously-applied seal, emblazoned with the Hresvelg coat of arms. (One could never be sure what seal any of them would use, so Bernadetta always tries to make note of it.)

 _Dear Countess Varley,_ the letter within begins in Hubert’s sharp but readable script. Bernadetta can’t help a flippant scoff. He’s never addressed her as such in person, but he’s always insistent about the sanctity of the written word. It’s a trivial matter, though, so Bernadetta continues on.

_My apologies for not presenting you with this in person, but I had to set out on business far earlier than it felt right to wake you; I hope this gift will more than make up for it._

_Yes, you read that correctly, gift—within this box, you shall find a fine specimen of_ Pinguicula primuliflora. _I assume you will be more familiar with its characteristics and I, as the plants I am most acquainted with are more along the lines of belladonna. However, I still wish to inform you what I learned from the merchant from whom I acquired this plant. It was a_ _n_ _enlightening conversation indeed._

What ominous phrasing. When they next speak, Bernadetta will need to make sure he didn’t kill someone to get her a plant, but for now, enraptured, she only keeps reading.

Pinguicula primuliflora _is also known as the primrose butterwort. It is a common carnivorous plant (though not around here, as I understand it) that produces mucilage on its leaves to ensnare its prey—a fascinating method of feeding, which it only needs to do several times a month. Perhaps you will have to_ _tell me about the methods by which other plants capture their prey._ _T_ _he merchant was unwilling to discuss anything I did not buy, and I had little gold on my person at the time,_ _but I find it all rather interesting._

A memory comes to mind: The first time she’d shown the greenhouse off to Hubert. It had been a brief tour, the greenhouse too bare for Bernadetta to display anything of note, and she’d already told him about the specimens she had on various windowsills. Thus, they’d stood together in silence for some time. Hubert had been lucky—he’d gotten to witness one of the flytraps feeding, something even Bernadetta didn’t get to see often.

Now that she has more planted, though, she should take him up on that offer. Bernadetta taps the corners of the parchment and reads the last few paragraphs.

_The primrose butterwort prefers evenly moist, peaty soil; average temperatures; and bright but indirect sunlight. It should thrive quite well in your greenhouse and make an impressive display besides. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not well-versed when it comes to plants, but the flower on this one is rather lovely._

_I received and packaged it bare-root, albeit wrapped in damp moss, so if you plan on planting it, I advise you to do so quickly. I do understand if you choose otherwise, however—I trust you know how to dispose of it if so._

_I look forward to seeing you again soon, regardless of whether it is with a new addition to your greenhouse. If you happen to see anyone else before I return, pass on my regards. Farewell for now._

In lieu of a name, the letter is signed with a small yet intricate design of a rose. It’s a near-perfect replica of the embroidered flower Hubert still wears at all times. Bernadetta buries her face in her hands at the sight.

She knows, in theory, about primrose butterworts, and can even picture one, but she hasn’t gotten her hands on one before. As Hubert had said, it’s a common and easy-to-grow carnivorous plant, but it’s hard to come by here, or at least it has been for her. She can’t imagine how hard he must have searched for it—or maybe he just came upon it by chance? Though that’s hard to think of, too, given how purposefully he does almost everything.

Bernadetta’s feet teeter up and down with excitement. The methods don’t really matter, she decides, so long as no violence was involved in the process; all she cares about right now is planting it. After admonishing him for the wording of how he _acquired_ it, she’ll have to tell Hubert his worries (somehow more obvious over paper than they’ve ever been in person) were for complete naught.

She leaves the letter on her nightstand, lifts the box, and hurries to her greenhouse.

**v.**

_Knock, knock_.

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” comes Dorothea’s voice, muffled by the door.

Standing outside, Bernadetta feels like any other over-the-top fan waiting for the Mittelfrank Opera Company’s diva to greet her. She isn’t usually still nervous around Dorothea, but her stomach twists and her heart pounds. Her hands shift behind her back to conceal a large bouquet she’d bought at the last minute. The petals of the red roses are darker and thinner than they should be, but that’s a natural process, Bernadetta tells herself as she tugs at the ribbon tying the whole thing together, and they would have wilted before long even if she’d gotten them in advance.

Before she can second-guess herself too much, the door opens. Dorothea is already dressed down to a nightgown, and her hair is loose and soft around her shoulders. Her tired face lights up at the sight of Bernadetta.

“Bern!” she greets, extending her arms. Bernadetta falls into them without a second thought, and she grins when Dorothea kisses the corner of her mouth. Dorothea leans back with her hands on Bernadetta’s biceps. “It’s so good to see you. I was expecting Edie and Hubie, to be honest, but it’s always lovely to see you here at the opera house.”

“You too,” says Bernadetta, somewhat shrill, glancing between the carpet and the wall. “I—um. Well. I—I got you something!”

Dorothea’s mouth parts in surprise. Her eyes jump to where Bernadetta’s arms are bent back, and though it’s likely she can see the bouquet sticking out from behind Bernadetta, she steps back with surprise. “Oh? Well, you’d better come in then.”

She gestures behind her, and Bernadetta follows in silence. This isn’t unknown territory to Bernadetta—she’s been in Dorothea’s dressing room before, whether to draw her or simply spend time with her and on occasion some of the others—but still, she feels as timid as a mouse as she steps in. Once the door shuts, Dorothea tilts her head in anticipation.

“Um—I got you a bouquet! You know, to—to congratulate you on your incredible performance.” Bernadetta’s voice fades into a question at the end, but she extends her hands to present the roses to Dorothea without any further ado. “They’re—not nearly as beautiful as you—” she winces; what a cliché line “—but, well, I did my best.”

Dorothea’s manicured hand comes up to her mouth. “Oh my.”

Bernadetta can’t decipher that reaction. Her eyes flicker behind Dorothea to the piles of flowers decorating the dressing room. There are other gifts from admirers, too, little boxes of chocolate and pieces of jewelry, but Dorothea has kept far fewer. Full bouquets of roses in a variety of shades—brilliant crimson, the same tone as Edelgard’s favorite dress; canary yellow as sunny as Ferdinand’s smile; affectionate pink like Petra’s hair in the sunset; even manufactured blue and purple, stunning enigmas—and plenty of other flowers, though Bernadetta only recognizes a handful. As she takes in how beautiful they are compared to her half-wilted bouquet, Bernadetta sags somewhat, biting her lip—

“Bern,” says Dorothea, soft. Her hand hovers only Bernadetta’s shoulder, only landing when her warm eyes meet Bernadetta’s. With her free hand, she takes the bouquet from Bernadetta and presses it against her own chest. “These are just lovely! I’ll have to clear out one of my vases for them tomorrow.”

“You really like them?”

Dorothea’s hand slides up to her cheek. “I love them, Bern,” she says, thumb smoothing across Bernadetta’s skin. Physical touch is a bit of a coin flip for Bernadetta, but now it’s nothing more than soothing, and she leans into the motion. “All that matters is that you got them for me. Thank you so much.”

She pulls back to set the flowers on her vanity. Bernadetta pats her cheeks to jar herself from her stupor (and retain a bit of Dorothea’s warmth). Right, she thinks, Dorothea wouldn’t care about such a thing—they all know very well that it’s the thought that counts. Though Bernadetta’s confidence has surged over the years, she can’t always stop her thoughts from barreling down an unsavory path once they’ve started the trek.

“While you’re here,” adds Dorothea, somewhat shy now as she looks over her shoulder, “I actually had something for you too.”

“Oh! Y-You really didn’t have to do that,” says Bernadetta, swaying to the side. “I mean, I’m just here to see you, and there’s no special occasion anytime soon, right?”

“The special occasion is you being here.” Dorothea smiles and cocks her head. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Oh,” says Bernadetta, deflating again—in a good way this time. “Well, that’s all right, then. Um—what do you have?”

Dorothea’s hesitant smile widens into a grin. “I’ll show you in a minute. Wait right here, all right?”

She disappears into a door off to the side, leaving Bernadetta standing in the middle of the room. In the meantime, she glances around Dorothea’s dressing room—not much has changed since the last time she was here, though Dorothea has put up a couple more pieces of art. Pinned above her couch is a framed charcoal sketch of Bernadetta’s. It shows Dorothea in full costume, singing with her hands folded over her heart. Bernadetta can’t help a pleased titter once she notices—it’s not her best work, but she had been pleased with how it had turned out.

Her eyes flit again to Dorothea’s flowers. It’s good that she’s doing so well, flocked to by the adoring fans she deserves, but Bernadetta does worry, knowing of Dorothea’s past experiences in the opera. She’s only calmed by the reminder that Dorothea, with her previous time here and her role during the war, more than knows how to take care of herself, but still, she can’t help but be glad she’s here tonight.

She puts her thoughts away when Dorothea reappears and sets a discreet package in Bernadetta’s palm. Frowning, Bernadetta gently moves her hand up and down—the bag is light, but she can hear gentle rustling as it jumps in her palm.

“Um—what is it?” asks Bernadetta, trying to get it open to no avail, what with her blunt nails.

“Cobra lily seeds.” Dorothea unlatches a dagger from her thigh and hands it over, earning a startled look from Bernadetta even as she takes it. “Little trick I borrowed from Manuela,” says Dorothea with a wink. “I’m pretty sure Hubie does the same thing. He’s got them in his sleeves and boots, at any rate.”

“Huh.” Bernadetta could have gone without confirming that—there’s always an assumption of danger around Hubert, but up until now, Bernadetta had clung to her willful ignorance of the probable weapons on his person. Oh well. It’s not like she doesn’t have a bow slung across her back more days than not.

Shaking her head, she cuts open the bag and peers inside. Within are, indeed, so many small, fuzzy seeds that she can’t count them all. She’s cultivated a couple of cobra lilies, but never from the seeds, so she wouldn’t have known just from looking at them.

She lifts her head to look back up at Dorothea, who’s watching with a tense, expectant smile. “This is—where did you get these?” asks Bernadetta, glancing between the lovely present and Dorothea’s lovelier face.

Dorothea tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. In the process, her fingers bump one of her dangling embroidered flower earrings. “A merchant was selling different plant seeds in town the other day. I decided to splurge. Do you like them?”

“Like them? They’re _incredible_ ,” says Bernadetta, breathy in her excitement. “I don’t have any cobra lilies in my greenhouse right now, but they’re one of my favorites, so I’ll definitely get to planting them as soon as I get back! Thank you so much, Dorothea,” she tacks on, blushing at the belatedness.

“Oh, good,” says Dorothea with a relieved chuckle. “I don’t know much about carnivorous plants, but I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two from listening to you.”

To Bernadetta, the plain knowledge that someone has listened to her is enough of a gift, but she clutches the seeds to her chest regardless. “I don’t know a ton about other plants, either, so that’s fine! Thank you,” she says again. She bites her lip, but even that can’t destroy her smile.

“Any time.” Dorothea picks at her earrings again. “Would you like to stay a little longer, or…?”

As tempted as Bernadetta is to hurry back home to figure out what to do with her cobra lily seeds, she can do that any other time—spending time with Dorothea is something she gets to experience much less often. So she folds the bag closed again and tucks it into one of her pockets. (When one sews most of her own clothing, she can add as many pockets to the skirts as possible.)

“I’d love to,” she says, taking Dorothea’s hand in her own.

**vi.**

“Bernie! Close your eyes, I wanna take you somewhere.”

These words from Caspar don’t quite instill confidence. Bernadetta frowns—she would like to, since she’s enjoyed going places more and more often nowadays, especially with people she’s comfortable with, but now, seated in the dining room with an easel before her, she’s feeling no such desire to leave. The very notion makes her tense up. She swallows; Caspar’s grin is shiny and brilliant, but even that can’t ward off the feeling deep in her bones.

Still, she gathers herself to say so. “I’m sorry,” she says, pulling her knees up to her chest, “b-but, uh, I think today is going to, um, be a day for staying inside.”

“Oh.” Caspar falters. “Really?”

“Sorry,” squeaks out Bernadetta again. “I—I’m sure wherever you wanted to take me is really nice, and you definitely can another time, but I’m just not feeling up to it today.”

“Hey, that’s okay, Bernie Bear!” says Caspar, his voice quieter than usual. Bernadetta had asked if he could keep a closer watch on it a while ago, guilty because she really does know he can’t help it, and she’d been surprised (pleasantly so) when he’d agreed to try his best. She smiles upon realizing he’s taken it to heart. “I can figure out something. Hmm.” He scratches his chin in deep thought, and then his eyes pop open. “Oh! How about I just bring the stuff to you?”

“Um—how, exactly? You said you had to bring me somewhere, didn’t you?”

“That was just for, I dunno, ambiance,” admits Caspar. “The place isn’t really important, anyway. Hold still, won’t you? I’ll be right back!”

Bernadetta has no qualms with this, though her frown deepens as Caspar scurries off like the devil is at his heels. Then again, that’s just how Caspar is. She turns back to her painting—nothing too special, just a study of the half-dead blood lilies sitting in a vase across the table from her, a gift from the Almyran ambassador; for some reason, flowers are more compelling in the process of wilting, though that macabre thought would suit Hubert better. The corners of her eyes stay sharp, though.

She hears more than sees Caspar’s re-entrance—clunking sounds echo down the hallway, and absent, Bernadetta turns toward the door. When she spots Caspar, the first thing she notes is that he’s wobbling a little, mostly on behalf of the four pots he’s trying to balance in his arms. Wet paint drips from her fallen brush onto the table cloth. For once, Bernadetta isn’t focused on that, only rushing up from her seat.

“C-Caspar!”

“It’s fine,” says Caspar from behind a Venus flytrap. A spunky plant, Bernadetta knows, more involved in catching its prey than other carnivorous plants, which wait for weeks for single insects to decompose—she’d raised them in her room for years. “Just, uh, can you help me over to the table, maybe?”

“Of course.” Bernadetta holds her hands out to take at least one of the pots, but Caspar shakes his head, only visible because his hair flops around with it. “What—?”

“Just, y’know—” Caspar makes a vague gesture thwarted by the cumbersome load he’s bearing.

Bernadetta does _not_ know, but when one pot slides precariously toward Caspar’s elbow, she makes the executive decision to steer him by the shoulders over to the table. He flips her a thumbs-up for it.

After he sets the pots down (on the opposite end from Bernadetta’s work-in-progress), Caspar fixes his knocked-askew embroidered flower pin. Edelgard and Hubert both have theirs pinned over their hearts most of the time, but Caspar’s is on the opposite side of his chest. Bernadetta has never been able to ask whether he wanted to copy them but forgot which side his heart was on or just wanted to do something different and therefore cooler. As long as he’s wearing it, though, it doesn’t really matter.

She brings her eyes back to his face as he straightens and wipes a trail of sweat from his forehead. “Whew! Thanks, Bernie.”

“Of—of course,” says Bernadetta again, voice faint. She looks, puzzled, at the array of flytraps now spread out across the table. “Um. What is this?”

“Venus flytraps,” says Caspar proudly. “ _Dio—_ wait, no, I shouldn’t try to say the scientific name, Lin will materialize to shake his head disapprovingly,” he adds, and Bernadetta breathes a sigh of relief.

“I mean, I know what they _are_. Just, um, why are they here?”

“They’re a gift! For you! They were supposed to be in a bouquet, kind of,” says Caspar, scratching his head. “But I couldn’t get them to stay, so I had to keep them all in one place. It would have been really cool if it had worked, though, right?”

Bernadetta pictures that: A bouquet filled with the many maws of several Venus flytraps. Wrapped the same way as any other bouquet; tied off with a silk ribbon, too. It’s a cute concept, to be frank. She doesn’t dislike other flowers, but she thinks she would personally much prefer something like that to a bouquet of pretty roses that would die within a few weeks.

“It would have,” she agrees. For all of his obliviousness and strongarming, sometimes Bernadetta forgets how sweet and thoughtful Caspar is. Though apparently not enough thought had gone into the bouquet.

He grins in return. “Yeah, right? Too bad it didn’t turn out right. Oh well, though—it’s not really how it looks that matters.”

Bernadetta turns back to the plants. She supposes finishing her painting is a no-go until at least this afternoon—at least she’d been done with the most recent layer of paint. “For sure. And these seem great, so thank you! You didn’t grow them yourself, did you?” she adds, worried. Not that she doesn’t trust Caspar, but, well—

“Nope! I bought ‘em from somebody passing through Enbarr a few weeks back.”

“Oh, okay.” Bernadetta runs her finger along the side of one of the flytraps’ mouths and shrinks back when it tries to close. “Oh, I think this one might be hungry. I should put them in the greenhouse right away, then—I know just the place.”

Caspar’s eyes light up. “Awesome! Can I help you plant them?”

“Um.” In the past, gardening with Caspar has never gone well—he’s perhaps too earnest, and that combined with his strength makes for poor skills in anything except occasional watering, even that dangerous for fear of overwatering. But Bernadetta doesn’t have to promise that she won’t fix everything up once he’s left. Or that she won’t relegate him to moral support. _B_ _esides_ _, Bernie, it’s the thought that counts._ “Sure thing!”

**vii.**

As she sits across the table from Ferdinand, enjoying a cup of tea, all Bernadetta can really think about is how much brighter the Aegir gardens are than she remembers. For all of the time she spends in Aegir territory, she’s never spent much time here, and she regrets that now. It’s lovely land—it experiences far more sun and warmth than Varley, at least, though Bernadetta doesn’t mind the cold much. And, well, Ferdinand’s presence is lovely as well.

Now, their pleasantries over with, he is pouring his own tea and giving Bernadetta an incredulous look. The sun reflects off of the embroidered flower hair clip sitting behind his ear. “I cannot believe that Edelgard arranged for you to have an entire _greenhouse_.”

“I can’t, either! But I’m sure she’d get you some stables if you asked,” reassures Bernadetta, unsure where his jealousy is placed. Ferdinand flushes a bit, making her pause. “Wait, did she really?”

“Well, not in any official capacity.” Ferdinand grips his cup a little tighter. “But she _did_ , ah, offer me free reign of the Hresvelg stables. I believe she mentioned that it was half Hubert’s idea.”

“Aw,” Bernadetta can’t help herself from saying. She tugs at the split ends of her hair. “Well, at least it isn’t just me they dote on. I would feel bad if it were.”

Ferdinand blinks and tilts his head, causing his hair—a more manageable length than during the war now, but still almost as long as Dorothea’s—to spill across his shoulders. “We would not,” he says. “As I am sure Edelgard has told you—always beating me to the punch, Her Majesty—” though his tone lacks real ire, he shakes his head “—you deserve nice things, my dear Bernadetta.”

“She has told me that.” Bernadetta shifts in her seat and takes a long sip of tea. It’s still warm, albeit not enough to burn, but at least she can blame the heat in her cheeks on that. “Erm—you seem kind of fidgety, Ferdinand,” she adds, taking any opportunity she can to change the subject. He always is, sort of, so it’s not a great observation, but there seems to be a more present edge to his twitchiness today. “Is everything all right?”

“It is funny that you should point that out!” Ferdinand’s mouth widens into a toothy grin that makes Bernadetta think, _Oh no._ It’s a cute smile, of course, but most often when it appears, he’s up to something—and going to give himself away almost immediately. “I was planning on bringing it up once we had finished our tea—it seemed more polite—but now that you have pointed it out, I must say: I have something for you.”

“Wh—oh, not you too,” says Bernadetta desperately, but Ferdinand is already standing, holding up a hand before scurrying off. She’s helpless to do anything but drink more in his absence. She drains her tea and takes to fiddling with the cup’s handle.

Just when she begins to worry about how long he’s been gone, Ferdinand steps into the gardens again, a pot against his chest. Bernadetta narrows her eyes as he gets closer—she isn’t able to make out what’s inside until he sets the pot down on the table, neatly avoiding their kettle and cups. Then her eyes widen when she identifies it as a rainbow plant. _Byblis gigantea,_ she thinks, but she’s not familiar enough with the different species to tell for sure.

She looks to Ferdinand, who smiles, dimples creasing, and returns to his seat. “This is for your greenhouse,” he tells her. “As I recall, you do not have any specimens quite like it—however, as far as I am aware, it grows in similar conditions to several you already own. I presumed it would make a nice addition to your collection.”

“It—it’s lovely. Thank you, Ferdie,” manages Bernadetta, throat tightening. Mesmerized, she runs a finger along one of the petals. “Did you grow this yourself?”

“I did indeed,” says Ferdinand, all but beaming. His proud smile dissolves into a frown as he shifts to his earlier position, legs bent awkwardly up beside him with his hands clutching his knees. “It was quite the ordeal. I did not manage to acquire the seeds during the season in which it naturally grows, so my first attempt was thwarted rather quickly. However, I was not going to give up so easily! So, well, it took me several more tries—horticulture is not my specialty, I must admit—but it turned out quite all right in the end, did it not?”

And how. The plant is one of the most perfect Bernadetta has ever seen in her life—she nods, smiling, and says, “It did. You really are incredible, you know.”

“I do try.” Ferdinand’s hands are shaking when he raises his cup, Bernadetta acknowledges, but she doesn’t bring it up. “Perhaps you could name it. The plant, I mean.”

“Er, no thanks. I don’t love plants nearly as much as you do horses, I don’t think.”

Bernadetta decides not to mention the fact that she has, in fact, named several plants in her greenhouse—after people. Nothing super definitive (yet), only little nicknames that make her smile to think of. The _Nepenthes rafflesiana_ that thrives in the shadows reminds her of Hubert, and its cousin the similarly passive _Nepenthes truncata_ of Linhardt. Meanwhile, the more active Venus flytraps are more like Caspar and Petra. Dorothea had been a trickier one, for roses and the like seem to suit her better, but the flowering butterworts scattered around the greenhouse are also beautiful yet deadly. As for Edelgard and Ferdinand, Bernadetta hadn’t quite figured out any behavior that matched them well enough to nickname any plants after them. Perhaps some of the hybrids she’s considering, enigmatic yet strong, products of their genetics that flourish into so much more—

She’s jarred from her mental list by Ferdinand’s ignoble snort. “I apologize,” he says with a more dignified clear of the throat—a little _ahem—_ and Bernadetta shakes her head. “Well, it is simply—they are living things as well, are they not? So I do not think treating them as I would horses would be a bad thing.”

“Oh,” says Bernadetta, blinking. “Huh. You’re right, actually.” She runs her fingers through her hair again, untangling knots, and then threads her fingers together in her lap. “A-And I actually have, um, named some of my plants. After you guys, I mean.”

Ferdinand sits up with inordinate delight. “Oh! Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, there isn’t anything for you or Edelgard yet,” adds Bernadetta quickly, rubbing her neck in shame. “I’ll figure out something someday, but for now, I haven’t worked anything out.”

“That is quite all right,” says Ferdinand, smiling into his tea. “Though I shall wait in anticipation to hear of the plant bearing my name someday.” He leans forward and adds in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Give it to something larger and more brilliant than Edelgard’s future plant, will you not?”

Bernadetta rolls her eyes, unable to help herself. “Aren’t you past your rivalry now?” As lightly as she uses the word to begin with, given it had been one-sided on Ferdinand’s part and rooted, at least in part, in his complicated feelings for her.

“In most serious matters, of course! She is my superior in many ways and my equal in many others. But, ah, old habits die hard, I suppose. Or something to that effect.”

“Hmm.” Despite herself, Bernadetta smiles. “If the plant that fits you best is, well, bigger and brighter than the one that fits Edelgard, then sure.”

“I am certain it will,” says Ferdinand, preening. He claps his hands together, quiet enough that Bernadetta doesn’t startle, and rises again. “Well then, I shall fetch a new blend, and if you would like, my dear, you can tell me about all of the plants you have already named, hm? I would greatly enjoy hearing about your greenhouse. But if not, I am more than happy to take up the flow of the conversation. Perhaps we could exchange plant and horse stories, as it were.”

Bernadetta laughs. Ferdinand has always been a force of nature, bold in a way she could never imagine being, and she’s always admired that about him—when they’d been younger, it had been a source of fear too, but now Bernadetta feels nothing but unbridled affection.

“That sounds great,” she says, smiling, and Ferdinand grins right back.

**viii.**

When it comes down to it, Bernadetta’s greenhouse is all her own. It’s a place where she can escape to when her home itself feels is suffocatingly open, where she can go to recover from overwhelming social interactions in the presence of all of her beloved plants. It’s safe and silent and allows her room to be alone without being lonely. This was Edelgard’s intention, no doubt, and for that, Bernadetta could never thank her enough. (Though of course she’ll try.)

One afternoon, nothing in particular leads Bernadetta to tuck herself in her greenhouse, but here she sits anyway. Her sketchbook sits against her knees. She pays it no attention, turning to glance around and admire her plants. The crunch of the jaws of a flytrap; the sun-dappled curve of a pitcher plant; the bright leaves of a sundew in the corner. She’d been doodling them off and on, but now she’s flipped to a blank page and hasn’t lowered her pencil again.

She’s considered growing other types of plants. Plenty of flowers have crossed her mind—carnations for Edelgard, sunflowers for Petra, roses for herself—but in the end, she’s kept those to the outdoor Varley gardens. This is her space, after all. She likes spending time with her plants, and that’s all that should matter.

So many of these plants, too, have come from the most important people in her life. In a sense, then, she’s surrounded by the ghosts of their presences, even when she’s too worn out to spend time with her partners themselves.

Also contributing to this feeling is the flower matching all of theirs attached to her ring. It’s on the wrong hand to be an engagement ring, and none of them are married—yet?—besides, but it’s a nice piece of jewelry, she has to admit, one of her favorite projects. Dorothea had helped attach the band to the small flower. As Bernadetta raises her pencil, the glint on her finger catches her attention, and she smiles.

A fresh wave of sunlight washes over the greenhouse. Bernadetta closes her eyes. Here, while the world outside is still unnerving, she feels as though she’ll be able to take it all on once she leaves.

In the meantime, though, she begins laying out a basic sketch for her portrait of the Black Eagle Strike Force.

**Author's Note:**

> as you can tell from the format of this and the creation of a new series, there should be six more of these! i have vague plans for all of them and chunks written of several but no real plan as to when they'll be done/posted (especially since i have a ton of other projects atm), so... stay tuned i guess!
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! if you have time to spare, comments & kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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